A single light shone through cracks in the plywood covering the window Danny had nailed up yesterday. Arn disarmed the security system and let himself in. A soft song played from the kitchen, and he walked through the house. Danny sat with his feet propped on a five-gallon drywall mud bucket, leaning back in an occasional chair the “chair fairy” had found for him. He turned pages in a book as he squinted under a reading light. He looked up when Arn entered and put his finger to his lips. “Erv’s sleeping and he’s got—”
“Phenomenal hearing,” Arn said. “I know.” He took his coat off and draped it over a chair.
“Why are you home so early?” Danny stuck a piece of toilet paper to mark his page in 1984 and set it on the counter. “I thought you’d still be out.”
“Ana Maria and I just talked with the guy who bought the old Spangler house. He did some remodeling, but kept it mostly like it was when Butch lived there. Including a solid oak door with some antique-looking lock. That sound right?”
“Did he want to keep the door? I mean, does it have character?”
“It did nothing for me. But it’s got some gouges and scrapes, if that’s what you mean.”
“Then I’d probably keep it. Old hardware is only slightly more difficult to come by than original doors.”
Arn poured a cup of coffee and headed into the sewing room with Danny close behind. He parted the sheets hung over the doorway and stood in front of the white wall, studying the photos like he had every night since he’d tacked them up. He flicked on the floor lamp and shined it on the pictures. He pulled a chair close to the wall and sipped his coffee while studying the photos. He was missing something getting through his damned thick Norwegian skull.
“What are we doing?” Danny asked.
Arn ignored him and eyed the photos.
Danny started speaking again, but Arn held his finger to his lips. “Erv’s got phenomenal hearing. In other words … ”
“Danny, keep quiet.”
“Smart man,” Arn said.
Suddenly, he slapped his leg. His coffee spilled over his shirt front, but he didn’t even care. “You son-of-a-bitch.”
Danny backed away. “Whatever it is I did—”
“Not you.” Arn leaned over and tapped Butch’s picture with his finger. “Hand me that remote.”
Danny passed him the remote, and he turned on the television. He inserted the old tape of Butch’s crime scene. Arn had run and rerun the video until he could memorize the scene. He’d never seen anything new. Until now. “There!” He stopped the tape.
Danny stepped closer to the white wall and shook his head. “What’s there?”
“His hand,” Arn said. “Look at Butch’s hand.” He ran the tape ahead a few frames and stopped it again. “See his hand? Now look at the still pictures.”
Danny put on his glasses and squinted at the image of Butch Spangler slumped dead in his chair. “I still don’t see what you’re ranting about.”
“About seventeen, eighteen years ago,” Arn explained, “agencies began videotaping crime scenes. The first thing the crime scene tech did—or the video and photograph technician, when I was in Metro—the first thing they did was to walk through the scene. Before anything else was touched. Before anyone came busting in and destroyed evidence.” Arn sat back in his chair, feeling exhausted and relieved both. “We’d use the tape to show the Watch Commander or the Battalion Commander, or the prosecutor, or anyone else who thought they needed to know what had happened. That way, they didn’t need to go bull their way into the crime scene and contaminate things.”
“It doesn’t get you any closer to solving Butch’s murder. The video shows what the still photos do.”
“No, they don’t,” Arn said.
Danny put his glasses back on and blew drywall dust off the television screen, his eyes going from the television to the photos on the white wall. He took his glasses off and pocketed them. “I still don’t see what you’re so orgasmic about.”
“This.” Arn traced Butch’s hand in the still photo. “The tape shows Butch’s fingers are curled. But sometime after the video was shot, Butch’s fingers got straightened out.” Arn pointed to another photo with his pencil. “And look at his trouser legs.”
Danny took off his glasses. “So he was a little sloppy. Give the guy a break, he was at home.”
“With one pants leg halfway pulled up over his ankle? That”—Arn tapped it again—“is what I’ve been missing.”
“Well, there you have it.” Danny threw up his hands. “A dead man straightened his fingers out, and one pant leg is pulled up over his sock. Now why didn’t I connect the dots? Now you can solve the puzzle of who killed Butch Spangler.”
“I just did.” Arn smiled for the first time. “Now all I have to do is prove it.”